


Offering

by damnslippyplanet



Series: Where I Go [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Body Paint, Collars, Hair Pulling, JustFuckMeUp, Light D/s Dynamics, M/M, Marking, PWP, Timestamp, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7130630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Nor, he reflects but does not say, would a real artist’s model be quite this distracting - would almost certainly not be half-hard beneath Hannibal where he straddles Will’s hips, would definitely not have made that feathery little half-whimper at the first brush stroke over his nipple, and would not be wearing Hannibal’s collar warm against his throat.  </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <i>A real artist’s model would not be nearly this much fun.</i></p><p> </p><p>Or: A little glimpse into a 'verse where Will is the Sassiest Sub, and Hannibal wouldn't want him any other way, and how they might pass a lazy morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offering

**Author's Note:**

> Can you really have a timestamp for a 'verse you haven't otherwise posted yet? Probably not. But, you know, god forbid I do things the right way. So consider this a little vignette of a 'verse yet to come. If this is up your alley, you can see some other WIP snippets of this 'verse [here](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com/post/144646742561/littlethingwithfeathers-damnslippyplanet-it), [here](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com/post/144697082166/so-excited-for-the-collaredwill-fic-throws), [here](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com/post/144800711391/hannipenguin-says-we-are-not-to-disturb-you-any), and [here](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com/post/144934451426/all-right-lovelies-here-is-the-back-half-of). But none of that's needed to appreciate this little bit of PWP.

 

> _And he offers up his skin.  
>   And you take it.  
>  ~Ashe Vernon, “Profane” _

 

The line is not as steady as he wanted it to be; the upward stroke at the end of the character wavers. Hannibal frowns at his canvas, and the canvas blinks back at him dreamily. 

“Tickles,” Will offers, in what is perhaps an explanation but could not be termed a genuine apology.  

“I warned you it might.  I believe I also told you to keep still regardless.”  Hannibal turns to his inks to re-dip the brush, as much to hide a smile as because it’s truly needed.  “You’ve held still for much worse.”

Will stills as Hannibal sets brush to his skin again. Holds all but his tongue, as Hannibal begins the next character.  

“You’d hold still too, if someone were smacking the hell out of you somewhere you’d be feeling it for a week. There’s a point to it.”

“And there’s a point to this.”

Will falls quiet and still then for a few minutes, under Hannibal’s hands.  It gives Hannibal time to contemplate a small spray of freckles under the left side of Will’s rib cage.  Simply writing over them seems crude; he’d prefer to find a way to make them part of his art.  He settles for letting one of the curving lines loop around one of the freckles, drawing it in.

The urge to lick and then bite at the little sprinkle of brown dots is strong, but it would be unseemly to smudge his work after chiding Will for doing the same.  He contents himself with the thought, for now.

When he turns back to his inks to exchange black for gold, Will yawns theatrically before asking, “May I stretch?”

Hannibal pauses, both to consider the request, and simply for the pleasure of the moment of suspension between request and response.  Pause and anticipation. Desire and...not denial, never that for Will, but perhaps delay.  

In truth, it would be a good time to let Will stretch, before Hannibal begins the last set of characters on his torso.  But this is an exercise with multiple goals.

And so: “Not quite yet.”

He tempers the response with a wordless apology in the form of a thumb rubbing a gentle circle over Will’s hip, and a kiss to follow it with only a hint of teeth pressing into the delicate skin there.  Will trembles under his hand slightly but doesn’t move - not truly, not in any way Hannibal would have no choice but to correct.

Hannibal returns to his brushes and to gilding Will’s torso with flourishes of gold.  

The tension in Will’s frame settles after a few more moments. Hints of it remain in his voice, gone a shade lower when he mutters, “I bet real artist’s models get breaks.  There’s probably a union.”

“Real artist’s models don’t complain half as much.”  

(Nor, he reflects but does not say, would a real artist’s model be _quite_ this distracting - would almost certainly not be half-hard beneath Hannibal where he straddles Will’s hips, would _definitely_ not have made that feathery little half-whimper at the first brush stroke over his nipple, and would not be wearing Hannibal’s collar warm against his throat.  A real artist’s model would not be nearly this much fun.)

Will grumbles but holds through a few more brushstrokes, until Hannibal relents and moves his weight off Will’s legs.  “You may stretch now.  Carefully, please.”

In truth, letting Will move is its own pleasure.  Hannibal had tried to place his brushstrokes with consideration for Will’s musculature, so that his handiwork would be as pleasing in motion as in stillness.  It’s satisfying to see the results and assess his success, as Will stretches and twists.

Before settling back into position, Will cranes his head to catch sight of the time, then looks quizzically back at Hannibal. “You remember that I have to teach this afternoon, right?”

“Hm.”  Hannibal remains noncommittal as he settles back into position over Will’s supine body, reaches again for his inks and brushes.  

“I’m just saying, this seems like a lot of work for something I’ll have to wash off in a couple of hours.”  

Hannibal knows better than to touch his brush to the canvas of Will’s flesh before he responds.  He’s well aware there’s going to be a little jerk of outrage when he says, “I don’t intend for you to wash it off.”

He’s not disappointed.  If he’d been in mid-brushstroke, it would have careened off wildly to one side.

“I’m not going to waltz into my classroom covered in all of this!”

“Do you usually take your shirt off in the classroom?”

“No, but --”

He sets his brush aside to lean over Will - carefully, carefully, not to smudge his calligraphy - and props himself on one hand, using the other to tug gently at the plain black cord strung around his neck, with its single bloodstone bead. “Would it be so different from wearing this in public?”

“Harder to explain.” Will’s gone avoidant, head turned off to the side, eyes fixed in empty space. It bares the line of his throat beautifully.  Easy to nuzzle against the flutter of his pulse; easy to tear his throat out.

Hannibal settles for nosing at Will’s pulse and kissing the line of his neck before he lets the collar fall back into place.  “You’d come up with something,” he mouths against Will’s skin, before sitting back on his heels to make sure he hasn’t mussed Will’s paint.  “I won’t make you, today, but it would please me.”

That brings Will’s eye contact snapping back to Hannibal’s. Contrary thing that he is, sometimes allowing him a bit of freedom is enough to bring him willingly to heel. “If anyone says a word about it, I’m claiming it’s some new therapeutic treatment and sending them to you with questions.”

“That would be only fair.” Hannibal doesn’t even bother to hide how pleased he is with the unspoken capitulation. “And it’s not even entirely a lie.  Your right arm, please.”

Will offers the arm in question with an alacrity that twists hot in Hannibal’s stomach - it’s still not entirely real to him that they’ve come to this place, where Will trusts him in this way.  Hannibal stretches it out gently on the sheets, palm up.  He reaches for his brush one more time and sketches a few quick characters partway up Will’s forearm - these not requiring thought, known by heart and executed many times.

The gentle tickling of the brush along the sensitive skin of Will’s inner arm sets him to a gentle tremble again, but not enough to ruin Hannibal’s signature.  He sets the brush aside and blows gently over the ink, then scratches his nails lightly over the unpainted part of Will’s arm, just to see that response again.

Will’s eyes go half-lidded with the sensation.  A pleased little hum slips from him seemingly unbidden before he says, “That’s going to show up if I roll up my sleeves.”

“I suggest you remember not to roll up your sleeves, if you wish to avoid awkward explanations.”

“I wouldn’t even know what to explain.  Are you going to tell me what any of this says?”

“I’d rather teach you to read it yourself.”

Will wriggles, just slightly, not enough to smudge his skin but quite enough to make Hannibal very aware that Will’s entirely naked underneath him.  “I’m not going to learn Japanese in the next three hours.  Tell me what my arm says, at least.”

It’s a signature, to cap the verse he’s spelled out on Will’s body.  Not quite as crude as _property of Hannibal Lecter_ , but not far off, truth be told.  Unnecessary, perhaps, given that Will’s already wearing Hannibal’s collar and more than a few marks from his teeth and nails, but satisfying.

He’ll tell Will later, maybe.  In the car on the way to Quantico, when it’s too late to scrub it off. He’ll enjoy the thought of Will hotly aware, all through class, that he’s marked in that way as well.  For now he just smiles and gets off the bed to move the tray with the inks and brushes to a safe spot across the room.

“Stay there, please.  I’ll need you to hold still for a while yet until the ink dries.”

He can hear the frustrated huff of air Will lets out, but he doesn’t move from where Hannibal’s laid him out so carefully.  While Hannibal watches from the other side of the room, Will rolls his head from side to side to stretch his neck, but otherwise he holds, poised and posed and exactly as Hannibal wishes him to be.  He finds Hannibal’s gaze across the room before he asks, “Are you going to tell me the point of this, now?”

“You tell me.  You have some time to spend in considering such questions, since you’re not to move.  What do you think the point is?”

Hannibal watches closely.  There’s tension and release in Will.  Always the urge to move or defy, and the tamping-down of the urge.  He can read it in every line of Will’s body, and he’s never entirely sure whether it’s better when Will’s desire to please wins out, or his need to defy.

Today, apparently, Will’s decided to behave.  Only a few errant muscle twitches betray him as he rolls his eyes ceiling-ward and says, “I hope we’re not doing sexy teacher roleplay right now.  I get enough of that in class, it really doesn’t do anything for me.”

That image warrants a laugh and a return to stand by the bedside and run a hand through Will’s hair.  Hannibal doesn’t even pretend to hide his enjoyment of the way Will leans into his hand automatically. “Truly, I don’t think either of us would find that particularly enjoyable.  Although I suspect I would enjoy watching you dissuade your ardent admirers.”

“Maybe sometime you can come to office hours and defend my honor,” Will allows. “They’re worse than ever this semester.”

Hannibal refrains from pointing out that since they’ve started their arrangement, Will’s eating and sleeping more regularly, and has found a conduit to uncurl himself, slightly, from his self-protective postures.  It’s no surprise if some of the students are responding to their teacher, who is lovely on his own, and more so with proper care and feeding.  

He can’t imagine Will would appreciate the observation. Nor can he imagine that Will thinks Hannibal would allow himself to be distracted this easily from the question at hand.

He runs his hands again through Will’s curls.  He tightens his fingers slightly, more a reminder of the potential for pain than any real hair-pulling at the moment.  Just to focus the conversation a bit.  “I asked you a question, Will.  What do _you_ think the point of this exercise is?”  

It’s enough, in combination with the command for stillness; the smirking line of Will’s mouth goes just slightly soft and uncertain. He licks unconsciously at his lower lip before he answers.  “It’s aesthetic, partly.  It always is with you.  You’ve got some picture in your head of me, and you wanted to see how close you could get.”

Will moves his head just a little, just to feel himself held still.  Somewhere behind his eyes, there will be the golden pendulum he’s spoken of.  He’ll be slipping behind Hannibal’s own gaze, looking for Hannibal’s design.  Seeing himself, perhaps, laid out on Hannibal’s bed, stubborn and breathtaking.

If Hannibal let himself, he’d get lost in the hall of mirrors - Will reflecting him, his own reading of Will’s needs, how easily they blur and get lost.  Sometimes they relax their chosen roles and he does simply get lost in Will, but this isn’t the time for it.

Instead, simply: “And?”

Will blinks, eyes unfocused, not entirely home in his own mind.  There are so many ways to pull him out of his head; sending him into a mindset this similar to the one he needs for his work isn’t Hannibal’s favorite, but it has its appeals and uses.  “Subtlety and patience - sometimes you want to see me be just like this for you.  Not pain, or restraints, just words.  Just to see if I’ll hold, and how long I’ll stay.”

“Good.  And you’re doing beautifully.  Anything else?”

A blink, and a refocusing, and Will’s back with him from wherever it is he goes.  Only partway back, but far enough for the smirk to reassert itself.  “I imagine you think that if you’re very good, I might let you scrub all this off me again after class tonight.”

“ _Will_.”  Hannibal can’t entirely deny it; Will’s not wrong.  He rarely is. “I’d like you to stay focused on the present, now.  Later we can discuss how you’d like to spend your evening, but right now you’re here and you’ll stay as you are for no other reason than because I want you to.  Do you need a point beyond that?”

He waits out Will’s silence, watching the line of his throat bob as he swallows whatever protest or plea he might have been forming.  He waits for Will’s eyes to go heavy-lidded again, and for him to say, rough and quiet: “No. I guess I don’t.”

It’s all Hannibal was waiting for.  He keeps his hold on Will’s hair just long enough to lean over and kiss him, lingering but light.  Just long enough to hold Will to the bed with that point of contact, when he tries to crane up and seek for more.  And then he lets go, and moves around to the end of the bed to kneel there between Will’s thighs.

Another time, with a full day to spend, he’d have decorated Will head to toe, front and back.   But for now he’s just as pleased to have Will’s hips free of designs so he can hold them down and steady.

“You’re still to hold for me, Will.  If you smudge yourself, I’ll be very displeased. But you may make all the noise you wish.”

Hannibal allows himself a grin, half-fond and half-predatory, before settling in properly to tend to his - well. His whatever-Will-is. He’ll find the right word for it someday.  

For now, he takes his own advice.  The present, only.  Will filling his mouth and his hands and his senses, only.  Will’s sounds and the salt of his skin and his valiant, quivering attempts at stillness.  The clenching of one hand in the bedsheets, and the more helpless curling and uncurling of the other hand’s fingers in empty air, where he isn’t allowed to clutch at anything for fear of ruining Hannibal’s signature on his skin.

Isn’t allowed to, and doesn’t, because for all his backtalk, in the end Will almost always does as he’s asked.  For Hannibal, and no one else.

It fills Hannibal with a savage sort of tenderness.  He reaches up a hand to take Will’s seeking one and lets him hold on, hard enough to hurt, as he comes with a helpless shudder.  The line of him is beautiful, trying and failing to arch from the bed where Hannibal holds him down.  The calligraphy on his skin is riveting, as it dances with the rise and fall of Will’s lungs as he struggles to catch his breath.  He may, just possibly, be more beautiful in motion than in stillness.

None of which stops Hannibal from chastising Will, very gently, when it turns out that beads of sweat have smeared part of Hannibal’s work.  

No matter.  There’s time enough before he has to let Will go.  He can wash that handful of characters clean and do it all over again.  Perhaps Will can behave better, the second time.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Offering (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7298242) by [Caveat_Lector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caveat_Lector/pseuds/Caveat_Lector)




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